Down our red cement staircase, the lane quivers the road with the frequent bus route. On the other bank of this river of traffic is an antique cinema theatre. In the nineteen ninety-five. The last show at this theatre gathered no more than a dozen moviegoers. On the theatre’s roof, a room shaped like a temple used to host directors, artists, and privileged fans after a première.
Now, if a knowledgeable person needs someone for performing a certain job he visits the deserted theatre, waits at the huge curlicued gate, and calls Dan. He must know the name of the person for the specific job. In the vastness of the theatre live many lost souls. He can whisper a name, the owner of the pair of hands to landscape or lay bricks or repair a window or mend, patch, fix something or kill a man or a woman.
I wander toward the gate with a tarnished monogram, rusted flowers, and blackened metal leaves, wonder if someday I shall utter my name and from the dark interior I shall emerge to meet me. “What can I do for you?” “Be born again.”
On this side of the road stands one tree whose shape is what one imagines when he hears ‘Tree’. It blooms this spring. The flowers look like buttercups. I shake the boughs, hold as many blossoms as I can in my hands. The dew those have in their hearts wets me.